“You talk like Patterson,” complained Ogden. “Poor devil!” he added, as an afterthought. “Patterson was as rabid on the Japanese question, Norcross, as your friend, Carter Calhoun.”
Norcross caught but the mention of Calhoun’s name. He had intercepted a look exchanged between Ethel Ogden and Julian Barclay—a look on Barclay’s part whose meaning bore but one interpretation, and which had brought a touch of color to Ethel’s white cheeks. Until that moment Ethel had ignored Barclay’s proximity, her eyes and hands fully occupied with a small piece of embroidery. Professor Norcross was conscious of a growing distrust of Julian Barclay—what made him so laggard a lover, for that he worshiped Ethel was plain to the observant professor, unless undesirable entanglements prevented open courtship? Suddenly aware that his stare at Barclay had become a glare of indignation, Norcross roused himself.
“Speaking of Calhoun,” he remarked. “I hear he is on his way to Washington.”
“The devil he is!” Ogden set down his coffee cup with a bang which imperiled the Dresden china and drew a protest from his wife. “With Calhoun around we will never hear the end of the Japanese question.”
“Is Calhoun really coming?” asked Barclay, turning with some abruptness to Norcross. “Or is it simply a rumor?”
The professor’s reply was lost as Charles announced from the doorway: “Mr. Takasaki.”
The Japanese attaché appeared almost simultaneously with the announcement of his name, and Mrs. Ogden and her husband greeted him cordially.
“I came to ask for the health of you,” explained Takasaki, bowing low over Ethel’s hand. “The fire and the death of the honorable Mr. Patterson was of the most dreadful.”
“Do sit here,” Mrs. Ogden patted the sofa, and Takasaki bowing gravely to Barclay and Professor Norcross, stepped past them and sat down by his hostess. “We feel Mr. Patterson’s death awfully; everyone does who knew him.”
“Mr. Patterson was a man of strong friendships,” began Norcross.